


unfolding

by cindo



Category: Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cindo/pseuds/cindo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes about a sweet boy and a battle-hardened girl—first friendship, then trust, and finally, love. First posted on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. new beginning

He has never done this before.

With Madrigal— _Karou_ , Ziri corrects—he has always had their friendship to cushion the fall, to soften the sting of rejection. Even if they cannot be anything more, they are always friends; they are at least friends, and this is something that Ziri finds comfort in—he cannot lose this.

But this, this is different. _She_ is different. This angel with hair like flowers—marigolds shining in the sun—and eyes the color of ice—yet their depths are endless as the sky, and that is _wondrous_ —is nothing like Karou.

He does not know where to start—only that he wants it to.

And maybe that’s enough; a start, a beginning.

Ziri unfolds his wings, reminds himself that _yes he has his wings back; his freedom, his sky, his solace, his refuge_ , and it is a subtle motion—slight enough that it does not disturb the cave, but grand enough to bring thoughts of something similar to the forefront of his mind.

He is filled with warmth brought on wings of fire—

—and he knows, as sure as he knows these caves as _home_ :

“I’m going to fly,” Ziri declares, “do you… want to join me?”

It is a start; _their_ start.


	2. flight taken

Liraz watches Ziri falter in the air, dipping awkwardly to the side and dropping precious few feet before righting himself. She does not realize she had expectations of him until he does not reach them—

—somehow she imagines him to be more graceful—

—because she remembers the fleeting form of that kirin warrior, dancing a lethal dance between the silver flashes of Misbegotten swords that makes the seraphs seem clumsy in comparison. She supposes she has always assumed that he would be even more graceful in the air.

Her own wings work soundlessly behind her, fanning warmth that causes the air to shimmer and bend, to keep her in flight. Liraz doesn’t consider herself elegant in flight—only deadly, as she needed to be, as she no longer has to be.

As if sensing her thoughts, Ziri looks up at her, only a moment, and then looks away, head dipping in an admission of his own incompetence.

 _But you are not_ —Liraz wants to say.

“I didn’t… think it would be so hard to find the right _balance_ ,” he says softly, voice almost lost to the sky.

“—the wind is… difficult,” she says instead, and curses her own lack of eloquence. “You’ll get it,” Liraz added, “when the wind stops being… difficult.” She doesn’t think it helps.

This feeling of contentment—warm, like she imagines the sun would feel on skin, or her wings around those humans, shielding them from the mountain air—is new to her, and she does not know how to express herself, even _now_ ; she has never been unclear when rage was all she had.

It is one thing she misses—the clarity; it is the only thing.

Ziri laughs, then, and it is all nerves and amusement wrapped in one. Liraz looks over to see him do a flip in the air—though it is more a tumble, flipping head over hooves as his wings spread to their fullest.

“Sorry, I guess you thought we would do more… well, _flying_.”

Liraz does not deny it.

“I did,” she replies, keeping her voice even, “and you’ve disappointed me, chimaera.” She sighs. “I suppose I should not be surprised.” She sees the look of alarm flit across his features, and she wants to assure him that _it’s not what he thinks_ , but she soldiers on—she was a soldier, after all. “You will have to make it up to me next time.”

Only then, does she allow herself to smile, a small one, because it is still an unfamiliar action, that would tell Ziri that it’s okay.

Liraz settles herself beside him, and extends her hand, palm up. “For now, though, it will suffice to stay... in the air—with you.”

He looks at her hand, and for one moment she is afraid that he will not take it, he is too _proud_ to take it—she will kill him, she thinks, if he leaves her hanging, yes—but then he _smiles_ at her, and all at once, it feels like the ground is rushing up at her, her wings are not working, how does she _stay in the air?_

His hand clasps hers in the next moment, though, and Liraz feels herself being held steady—they are both steady—and she turns to face him, smiling herself. They clasp hands, palms to palms, and she is grateful once more for the absence of the nausea that she has associated with the chimaera—in the wake of that pain, there is only elation.

Ziri presses in close, closer than she would be comfortable with otherwise, and, eyes wide in mock surprise, whispers, “I think I’ve found it.”

He pulls them high into the sky, so high that the caves are obscured by clouds, in one single motion. “ _Balance._ ”


	3. a dance between

It starts like this: Karou presents Ziri with one of her crescent moon blades ( _because he should have it, it is his_ ) under the star-glazed sky.

“I saw you fight,” Liraz says, softly, when the two of them are alone just outside the cave. She has her sword in her hand, and he is holding the curved blade that is almost too precious to waste in battle.

Ziri doesn’t think he heard correctly; his first memory of the seraph was through the eyes of the White Wolf, drowning as he was inside that… body.

“I wasn’t… staring or anything,” Liraz adds, as silence settles between them. From the corner of his vision, Ziri sees her grip tighten on the handle, and he does not fail to notice the long sleeves draped over her fingers, where the lives of his countless comrades all lay. He also does not fail to notice that Liraz refuses to roll up her sleeves.

Ziri remembers the feeling of his blades tearing through blood and feathers alike, remembers, too, warmth fading to void—and he thinks that they are not unalike. Soldiers, killers; only he does not have their lives engraved on his hands.

It comes back to him. _I think… the angel saved me,_ Ziri remembers telling Karou, and he looks sharply at Liraz, who is doing a fair bit of staring herself, eyes wide, anxious, waiting.

“I—” He opens his mouth, but no words come. He _cannot_ find the words; she saw him, she saw them holding him down, saw him on his knees—and he is weak, playing safety while his friends went to die, and—

“It was the most beautiful thing I had seen.”

She cuts him off, and they are not what he thought (weak, weak, cowardly, _selfish_ ). She is still looking at him, frowning now, her browns knit together in what looked like—frustration.

“You were _beautiful_ , Ziri,” she says with the conviction he remembers of her, when they first met, and she was all hatred towards him, towards the White Wolf. “I have… always thought that killing was a brutal art, not something beautiful, only cold, merciless efficiency.”

Ziri sees the truth in those words—sees her unspoken thoughts in the way she trails off: _I am a killer, I am not beauty,_ and he understands because he has fought, and killed, and thought himself beyond hope.

Sometimes, he still sees Karou as she was in the first days at the Kasbah, her eyes full of disgust at the _soldier_ he had become for Thiago, for the chimaera, and it is those moments where he rushes to find her in the maze of the Kirin caves so that he knows that _they are friends_ and _she does not hate him_.

Liraz probably did not have anyone like that.

Very gently, Ziri touches the curved edge of his blade to the seraph’s, metal on metal, and brings the weapons up between them. Sunlight glints off the silver, shining. “I think of fighting as a… as a dance,” he offers, “between your opponent”—he does not say _enemy_ —“and you.” He let his arm fall back to his side, fingers only loosely holding his weapon, for they are not enemies, no longer.

He takes a deep breath. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Liraz does not hesitate, as she eases into a battle stance, right leg forward, left leg back, sword raised. “Please.”


	4. my hand in yours

Ziri wakes to dizzying pain, and soft covers.

His vision is slower to recover than his consciousness, and for the first moments after waking, he sees only a blurry figure by the bed. The telltale sign of warmth reveals their identity, though, and Ziri closes his eyes once more.

“Liraz?” he calls softly, partly because his throat is dry but mostly because he knows she’ll hear him.

So it comes as a surprise when, rather the familiar cadence of Liraz’s voice, it is Akiva’s that echoes the room. “She’s pointedly been avoiding this room ever since you passed out.” He shrugs.

Ziri takes a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, unsure whether the stars he’s seeing is because of his headache or because of his exertion. “Was it that bad?”

“Well,” Akiva begins in an even tone, “she did slam the hilt of her sword into the side of your head.” He helps Ziri into a sitting position. “I’m surprised you’re even conscious right now. It’s only been a day and a half.”

Ziri’s eyes widen. A day and a half? He tries to push himself up, but the world spins around him and he finds himself on his back instead, looking into Akiva’s golden eyes. He’s never noticed just how much like flames they look. “Oh.”

The angel chuckles. “I’ve never seen Liraz upset over a little bump like that.”

Ziri doesn’t reply to that; he only shuts his eyes, and lets the darkness claim him.

The next time he wakes, it is Liraz’s face he sees, not her brother’s.

“Hey,” he slurs, thick with sleep.

“Hi.” She looks away. “Sorry about your head.”

“It’s alright.” His voice sounds distant, even to him. And then, because the silence is heavy on both of them, he adds, “I’ve had worse.” At once, It is clear that it is not the right thing to say because he sees Liraz cringe from the corner of his vision. He is filled with a blind need to reassure her, and he reaches out, taking the hand that is covered in lives in his own unmarked one.

“I’ve never—I’ve never felt like this after a… a fight before. It was always them and us _right then_ and I never thought about the afterwards.”

“You didn’t know.” Ziri gives her hand a squeeze.

“Yes, but I should have _known_ , instead, I only killed and killed, worried only for the number at the end of the day. Hazael knew. Akiva learned. I—didn’t.”

“You’re learning now,” Ziri says fiercely, “and that’s just as good.” He touches the bump at the side of his head. “If this was all it took, then it’s worth it.”

He thinks back to when they wove through the air with wild abandon, remembers _“I can teach you how to dance, if you’d like”_ and thinks that Liraz is not the only one to get something from this.


End file.
